


Fill My Heart With Fire

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, First Age, Getting Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Turgon dies on the Ice instead of Elenwë. This is the story of what happens after that.





	Fill My Heart With Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



> The title is from Sappho.
> 
> Many, many thanks to the wonderful erlkoenig for the speedy and wonderful beta! My thanks also goes to Elleth, who put up with questions about Sindarin and Quenya on multiple occasions, and was very helpful and patient. All remaining mistakes are, of course, mine.
> 
> Warnings for off-screen character death, references to non-graphic violence, and mentions of torture. Also, with regard to certain events (the Kinslaying and Grey-elves in particular), Aredhel is very much an unreliable narrator.

It was a dark and stormy night—

_It is always dark on the Helcaraxë._

It was a stormy night—

 _When is there_ not _a storm on the Grinding Ice?_

It was a night—

_It is always dark that far north, and besides, these were the years before the Sun and the Moon but after the Darkening._

Very well. There was, on the Helcaraxë, a man, a woman, and a girl, all three of them Ñoldor, and part of a greater host of Ñoldor. The ice shifted as they walked—

_The ice is always shifting._

—and the girl did not move fast enough. She slipped. The woman jumped after her and—

_And? How many times did this happen while the Ñoldor cross the Ice?_

—and the man jumped after the woman and the girl. They pulled the girl up, together, back to the precarious safety of the ice, and then the man lifted the woman up. And then the ice shifted, again, and he disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

A faint silvery light, rising on the horizon. Írissë had tripped and fallen; if she had not fallen, she would not have seen—

But she has seen. She has seen the light, and she knows not what it is, and fear seizes her heart. _Light_ , if nothing that compares to Laurelin or Telperion, but _light_. And she had believed, before, that light could do no harm to them, but they have set themselves against the Valar, and—

“Your highness!” A messenger, young and lithe as all their messengers are (and foolhardy, too, probably; one must have a certain extent of recklessness to run through the Ice at a much faster pace than, and in the opposite direction to, the host.) “A message from Prince Ñolofinwë. The light—”

“I know,” Írissë says. “I have seen it too.”

“And—” The messenger pauses, chest still heaving, and takes a deep breath. “Your highness, we are approaching the land.”

For a moment, Írissë thinks she has misheard. Then, perhaps, louder than she ought to, “ _Land?_ ”

“Yes, your highness,” the messenger pants, and there is both joy and awe in his voice. “Land!”

“Are you sure? The Prince said this himself?” It is Elenwë who speaks, now, where she had been silent at Írissë's side before, half-turned to survey the light. “He saw the land?” Írissë understands her wariness—too many false sightings, hope rising within them only to be crushed.

“I saw it, my lady, with my own eyes, and the Prince sent scouts out—they say it is land, they are sure of it.” At Elenwë's doubtful expression, he adds, “Prince Findekáno went out with the scouts, my lady, and he, too, says it is land. Prince Ñolofinwë says that we will stop only once we have reached it.”

“ _Land_.” After so many years, so many deaths (but her mind shies away from that thought, still). _Land._

But Elenwë is tugging at her elbow, now (a gentle touch, but Írissë feels it even through layers of clothing). “Look, Írissë, the light is growing.”

Írissë turns, and finds that Elenwë is right. “Oh.” She does not know what this means. Is it a good thing, or a bad thing? Does light come with land? She does not know, and there are few in their host who will.

“Your highness?” The messenger is speaking, and Írissë turns back to him. “What shall I tell the Prince?”

“Tell him that I have seen the light, and that I heard his message about the land. Tell him that I will prepare as necessary.”

“Very well, your highness.” The messenger bows, and is gone. The people around them, Írissë realizes distantly, the people within earshot, are all still, the whisper of _land_ growing among them.

“Ektelion, Laurefindil, Aikamabalót.” The three people whose names she has spoken—her most trusted commanders (and her brother's before her)—hurry to her side.

“Your highness, if I may?” It is Laurefindil who speaks, and Írissë inclines her head.

“We do not know what we are facing, my lady, and the light—”

“We know nothing about the light,” Írissë acknowledges. She would not interrupt normally, but the light is growing as she speaks. “And we do not know what we will face once we reach the land, whether there will be others of our kind to greet us” (still, she does not speak Fëanáro's name; there is too much grief and anger tied up in that word, grief and anger she can ill afford to give free rein to) “or whether we will walk right into Melkor's arms.” (And, too, there is the fact that they know that Fëanáro is dead. Ñolofinwë had told them this some time ago, though he would not tell them _how_ he knew, something Írissë does not know what to think of.)

“Be on your guard.” This she says to everyone gathered around her; she hears the order being echoed throughout the host, her father's men and her brothers' and her cousins' all spreading the word even as her own people (her people, now, people who had once been Turvo's) being to do so, too. Then, to her commanders: “Be on your guard, we know not where the light comes from. Gather those who cannot fight to the middle; set people adept with the sword around us. Work with my father's men, and my brothers' and my cousins'. We are approaching land, and we . Laurefindil, Ektelion, Aikamabalót, strengthen the armed watches around the perimeter of the host. Send messengers out to Prince Ñolofinwë, give him news of what we are planning to do.”

The people around her scurry to do her bidding, moving much faster than the sedate march of the host. They are scared, still, but for the first time, they have hope.

And yet—and yet she cannot bring herself to join them in that hope, not yet, not fully.

Next to her, Elenwë murmurs, “I am worried. This may be a trap of Melkor's. We do not know his strength, and if he has the power to destroy light...”

 _He may have the power to create it, or bend it to his will,_ Elenwë does not say. Írissë understands the fear all too well. Heresy though it may have been in Valinórë, the truth is that they do not _know_ what Melkor's powers are, now, and she does not know whether the old stories of destruction without creation can be believed.

Írissë does not utter this thought, but it must have become clear to Elenwë, somehow, through her face, for she moves closer, until her arms brush Írissë's as they walk, gloved fingers almost touching.

Írissë's throat is suddenly dry, but she makes herself speak, for a sudden thought has risen to the forefront of her mind. “Should we call Itarillë?”

For Itarillë is walking some paces behind them, with a few of her friends. Elenwë had been reluctant to let her out of reach for more than a brief span of time, but Itarillë's pleading had won out. Írissë had backed Itarillë at that point, but now—

Now she needs her family with her, or as much of it as can be gathered (very few, for all of them have their various responsibilities), broken and empty of a crucial member as it is.

Elenwë has turned, already, and is calling Itarillë to her side. Írissë watches the ground with one eye, the horizon with the other, and—

And. The light is _growing_ , faster than ever, and emanating from a silver source, at least partially round. As Itarillë comes up to them, the sphere rises in the sky. It rises, and rises—

“Land!” The cry must have come from the front of the host, but now it has reached them, too, and new voices take up the cry: “We have reached land!”

Írissë hears, as if from a distance, the trumpets her father's men are blowing, trumpets used to warn of danger turned into a sound of joy, her own people taking up the sound, too, but she cannot think. They have not had light beyond fires and lamps, not truly, for—she cannot remember how long, now, can only remember _before_ and _after_. She thinks, now, dazedly, that she had forgotten.

The light is the light of Telperion. It cannot be mimicked, and now, looking at it, Írissë wonders at how she could ever have thought it could be perverted. There are no words do describe the light, and she stretches up her hand as if to catch it.

“He would have loved this,” Elenwë says, quietly, from next to her. Silver light bathes her hair, and makes the strands sparkle. Elenwë's cheeks are glowing, and she is smiling, open and wide, as she has not smiled in some time (since _before_ ) and suddenly, Írissë wants nothing more than to kiss her.

She pushes the thought away. She will think about it later. (Or, as the case may be, and depending on the strength of Melkor's forces, perhaps never.)

For now, she gathers both Elenwë and Itarillë to her body, and holds them tight. For the long march is over. They have, at long last, reached Middle-earth.

 

* * *

 

 

Their first battle on the shores of Middle-earth is short—more of a skirmish, really, and Írissë has barely time to draw her sword and wade into the fray, pushing the noncombatants (few as they are—in those last years in Aman, most of them learned to use some sort of weapon, and only those who were children, and a mere handful of full-grown men and women, do not know how to fight) into the centre of the ring they have formed (a strategy they had all agreed was the best choice, but the difficulty of which is only truly emerging now).

Her voice is hoarse as she orders people to _move_ , orders her soldiers to their positions. She knows, suddenly, that a battle on the docks of a city whose name she does her best not to think of is very different from a battle against the forces of Melkor. Her people are untrained, unable to keep a position or to obey orders.

She managed to calm herself enough to do what she must early in the battle, but she sees young men and women panicking everywhere she looks, noncombatants caught up in the middle of the fray and unable to extricate themselves. Elenwë and Itarillë are not at her side any more, and Elenwë she knows, can handle herself in a fight even if she would prefer not to (for she trained with Írissë in the art of the sword), but Itarillë—

But she does not think of that, cannot think of that. Not now.

For they are giving ground, being forced back step by step, and if it is this bad in her own host, then she shudders to think of what is happening to her father's people, who, at the head of the column, are bearing the brunt of the attack. Her only consolation is that their warriors, at least, have better training than her own.

And then—

And then something shifts, and the companies of the Orcs (and she had thought those were tales spun to scare children in Valinórë, but now she knows that they are very, very, real, as the flecks of blood on her sword indicate) are falling back and disappearing into the darkness from whence they came.

They go as quick as they have ambushed, and, Írissë realizes, surveying the sudden calm of the battlefield, that the losses of the Ñoldor are not as large as she had feared, at first.

Or so she thinks, until word comes to her of how the battle ended.

And then she can only think, _Arakáno is gone_.

 

* * *

 

They set up camp to rest and tend to the wounded once they are on flat land, and Írissë is occupied with setting up patrols, sending out people to find meat and fresh water (for they are running low on both, and the fishing and water-straining techniques that served them well on the Ice will not help at all here), and sorting out complaints, while Elenwë sees to the tents and sanitation.

Somehow, she finds Findekáno. Or maybe he finds her. She does not know which is true, but either way, they end up side-by-side, staring at the encampment that stretches out almost as far as the eye can see, but hidden from the view of their people by a copse of trees ( _trees_ , but Írissë cannot revel in them, not truly, not now).

It is Írissë who breaks the silence. “We have lost so many, and yet—”

“And yet,” Findekáno agrees quietly. His hand rises to Írissë's shoulder, grip a little to tight to be comfortable, but Írissë does not mind. The pain grounds her, stops her from drowning in the grief that has crept up on her now that she is still.

“I wish—” Írissë breaks off, and sighs. There is nothing to say, truly, for all her wishes are foolish.

But Findekáno nods. “I know. He was so young, still—” But he breaks off with a violent movement.

And then they embrace fully, and, in the privacy of her brother's arms, Írissë cries, and feels Findekáno's body shudder as he, too, weeps.

At length, though, Írissë manages to compose herself, and Findekáno does, too, though Írissë can still feel him twitch, occasionally, in her arms.

Findekáno says: “We are the last two children of Ñolofinwë, I suppose.”

 _Barely on Middle-earth and two of us already,_ Írissë thinks. _How long will it take me and you to die, Finno?_ But she only says, “How is father? I saw him earlier, but only for a while. And I have heard from messengers bringing me his orders, but that is not the same.”

Findekáno sighs. “As well as can be, I suppose. And,” here a dark note enters Findekáno's voice, “determined to make Melkor pay.”

“He _will_ pay.” But Írissë knows she is only mouthing empty promises; they do not know Melkor's strength. They are heading for his fortress, but they do not know how far it is. Right now, their people are driven by anger and desperation, but Írissë does not know how long it will last. And yet—

“Your highness!” Both Findekáno and Írissë startle at the voice, and they both begin to move. Then they look at each other, and, suddenly, laugh.

The laughter is creaky and wretched, and tinged with guilt, but it is _laughter_. Írissë had thought, truly, for a moment, that she would never be able to laugh again. (And yet she laughed after Turvo's death, even on the Ice. She is truly foolish sometimes.)

Both Laurefindil and one of Findekáno's men—Mírwendë, she thinks—are approaching them. Both Írissë and Findekáno hastily wipe their faces and straighten their clothes out.

“The call of duty cannot be ignored,” Findekáno says dryly.

Írissë smiles and kisses his cheek before they both move away, in two direction, to meet their respective commanders.

“Yes, Laurefindil?” Írissë is unsure of why Laurefindil is coming to find her, and not a messenger—whatever tidings he brings cannot be good.

He bows as he reaches her. “We found a stream, your highness, and the hunters report that there does seem to be game, but food will be tight for some time.”

That is a relief. Melkor would not need to fight them if they became withered husks due to the lack of food and water. “Food being tight is better than no food. Anything else?”

“We have set up a tent to care for the wounded, your highness, and,” here he hesitates for a moment before forging on, “there seem to be more wounded than dead. The Orcs are not used to fighting Elves, it seems.”

“That is good. I will visit the tent as soon as I can.”

“And, your highness, Lady Elenwë requested your presence. It seemed urgent.”

Írissë raises an eyebrow. “Playing errand-boy, now, are you, Lord Laurefindil?”

Laurefindil grins. “The lady insisted, your highness.”

“Very well.” Írissë sighs, but she sets off in the direction that Laurefindil points her in. She would be more worried, but Laurefindil's manner indicates that the matter cannot be of vital importance.

 

* * *

 

 

She finds Elenwë in front of a tent, giving orders to a messenger. The messenger bows and runs off as Írissë approaches the tent.

When Elenwë sees Írissë, she smiles. “Laurefindil found you?”

“Yes.” Írissë cannot help but return the smile, even now. “What was so urgent that you had to send him and not a messenger?”

“Inside the tent.”

Írissë feels a flash of worry. Inside means something that cannot be spoken in public, and she cannot imagine, now, what that could be if not grievous news. She moves the flap aside and steps into the interior of the tent. “Elenwë? Is Itarillë alright?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Then—”

“Itarillë is fine, Írissë, and so is everything else,” Elenwë says. She moves closer to Írissë, and Írissë feels that strange tingling across her skin again, as if she has been struck by lightning. “But you, my dearest Írissë, need to rest.”

Rest? Írissë does not comprehend the word for a moment. Then she moves away in annoyance. There is no time for _rest_ , now, she needs to visit the wounded, see that the hunters come back safe, make sure the border patrols know what they are doing—

Elenwë grabs her wrist (and her touch _burns_ Írissë, hot and cold where Elenwë's fingers are pressed into her skin). “Írissë. Stop.”

“Elenwë,” Írissë sighs. “I need to—”

“I know. But all the tasks you need to do will keep, as will all the tasks I need to do. You have competent deputies, and I sent messages to them—and to mine—to tell them that we will be indisposed for the coming few hours.”

She wavers, but—she _needs_ to go. She has tasks to do, too many tasks to even contemplate, and she trusts her deputies, but still—

“You need to rest, or you cannot do your duties properly. I was not going to sleep, either, but Osellë pointed out that I would be of little use if I collapsed from exhaustion.” And now Írissë can see the lines of exhaustion around Elenwë's eyes, and knows they are mirrored in her own face.

“I cannot afford rest.” But Írissë knows her resistances are crumbling. Sleep sounds wonderful to her right now.

“Írissë.” Elenwë's face softens. “Rest. For me.”

The _for me_ is Írissë's downfall. She cannot resist. “Only a few hours.”

“Of course. I have already asked that we are woken in five hours.” Too long, in Írissë's opinion, but Elenwë does not give her time to protest. She tugs Írissë by the wrist she is still holding to the cot (the only one in the tent). She collapses next to Írissë, and it does not occur to Írissë to question why. They shared the same pile of furs on the Helcaraxë often enough, to conserve and share their bodies' natural heat, and it seems natural to curl into Elenwë and put her head on her shoulder.

Írissë drifts off to sleep with Elenwë's arms wrapped around her. Despite everything, her dreams are sweet.

 

* * *

 

 

Írissë wakes with Elenwë still curled around her, a smile lingering on her mouth from whatever she had been dreaming of.

She sits up, moving as little as she possibly can. They have no means of telling the time here, but it cannot yet have been five hours, for no-one has come to wake them.

Elenwë stirs and grumbles at Írissë's movements, but settles down again soon enough. Her golden hair is splayed out across her pillows, and her body is splayed out, relaxed. Írissë had not realized how many worries Elenwë had been carrying until she sees her now, the lines of her face and body unburdened in her sleep.

Írissë moves a curl of hair gently away from where it had been brushing against Elenwë's mouth; she lets her hand linger, for a moment, on her shoulder, before realizing what she is doing and snatching it away, blushing.

“Írissë?” Elenwë's sleepy murmur has Írissë panicking for a moment, sure that Elenwë had caught her gesture, but no. She's just waking, slowly, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. She stretches, her arms rising and her sleeves falling back, and Írissë sees a flash of red-brown.

She grabs Elenwë's forearm to prevent the sleeve from falling back, then hastily lets go at Elenwë's yelp of pain.

But the yelp is enough for Írissë to know. She takes Elenwë's arm, more gently this time, and pushes back the sleeve to reveal a still-healing wound, a deep gash that cuts lengthwise across Elenwë's forearm, the crook of her elbow, and a little less than half her palm. “Elenwë? What is this?”

Elenwë will not look at Írissë. “A graze, Írissë. It will heal.”

Írissë bites back a curse, holding the fear and anger rising in her at bay through sheer force of will. It will not help now. “Elenwë. The old stories tell of Orcs poisoning their weapons—”

“—but we do not know whether the stories are true!” Elenwë snaps. Then she draws away from Írissë, pulling her arm, too, away. “I am sorry, Írissë, but this is healing already, and there are many who need the healer's attention more than I do.” Which is true, for they do not have enough healers at all and the healers they have are overwhelmed, but a gash which is poisoned would mean certain death if not treated properly, Írissë knows.

“Would you say that if I had that horrid gash on _my_ arm?”

“...No. But Írissë, I do not want a healer to be fetched.” Elenwë pouts at Írissë, and if she was not angry at Elenwë, Írissë would have found it adorable.

“I need to visit the healer's tent anyway—I was planning to see how the wounded were fairing before you so rudely kidnapped me. You can come with me and get your arm looked over.”

Elenwë does not seem to be able to find any rejoinder to this. “Fine.” She makes to rise, but Írissë motions to her to hold still for a moment.

“You worried me, Elenwë.” Her voice is gentler than it was, earlier. “I—we do not know anything about Endórë yet. And,” she knows her voice breaks, here, but she cannot bring herself to care, “I cannot lose you, Elenwë.” _I could not bear losing you too,_ she does not say.

Elenwë is silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly that Írissë almost does not hear: “I cannot lose you either, Írissë.”

 

* * *

 

 

Írissë thought, foolishly, that the marching would end once they reached dry land, but—

But of _course_ it does not.

“Why would you be so foolish as to make such an assumption?” Elenwë asks, but the twists of her lips shows that she, too, had held that fool's hope.

No matter. They are pursuing Melkor, and so pursue him they will.

“Even if our feet fall off before we catch him,” Elenwë says.

Írissë and Itarillë both laugh, but Írissë thinks, privately, that what Elenwë says just might be true. The silver orb has passed across the sky three times and still they march, and though they spent much longer on the Ice, it feels as if—

“I think I imagined that Melkor would be standing at the shores of Middle-earth and we would battle him there,” Írissë confesses.

Elenwë puts an arm around Írissë's waist, which Írissë takes as agreement.

The land they pass through is strange. It is wooded, mostly, with strange trees that do not grow in Valinórë. Here and there trees have been hewn down (and some left to rot, for such, Írissë thought, was the senseless destruction of Melkor) and streams destroyed, but the land has grown around the wounds.

There are, too, signs of _people_. Not Orcs, but Elves, true people (and Írissë dares not even think it, but maybe, maybe, the Second Children who had been whispered about in Aman). Her hunter's eye spots the remains of traps, and once she picks up what seems to be an arrowhead. Not an arrowhead of the Orcs, either, for it is beautifully, if roughly, made.

When she shares these observations with Elenwë, Elenwë laughs. “I would disappear, too, if a large host of people,” for they have been diminished, true, but their numbers are still much larger than those of Fëanáro's people or of those who remained behind in Aman, “like me but unlike me, passed through my land.”

“So you agree with me?” Írissë cannot help the hope creeping into her voice. If there are Elves in Middle-earth, still, then Melkor cannot be all-powerful and undefeatable.

“I trust you.”

Something warm flares in Írissë's chest at the words.

Elenwë's voice is much softer than it was when she speaks again: “And Írissë, I do not know what to think of this, but sometimes, I _know_ I have heard people singing, almost out of earshot but not quite. I do not know whether it is my imagination, or—” Here she pauses, gulps. “Or the wiles of Melkor.”

“Or the people of Fëanáro,” Írissë offers, and immediately wishes she had not spoken.

Elenwë does not speak for a moment. Then, “I _hope_ it is not them. Or, if it is them, that they stay away.” Her shoulders are hunched, her hands curled into fists.

There is nothing to say to this. Elenwë already knows of her anger; what more is there to add?

But Elenwë continues, and her voice is calmer, suddenly, her posture more relaxed. “And I do not think it is them. The stories about Elwë and about those who stayed with him—”

She does not finish the sentence, but she does not have to. Írissë understands.

Maybe, maybe—

But they do not know, not truly. Írissë does not speak any of her thoughts aloud. Instead, she allows her hand to brush against Elenwë's as they walk through the woods of Endórë under newly-created silver light.

 

* * *

 

 

They witnessed the first rising of the silver light (and they still call it that, but they _must_ find a better name for it) because of the flatness of the ice, but they do not see most of the first sunrise.

They have just passed through another mountain—

“The old stories never told us that Endórë was made up of hills and trees,” Itarillë had said.

“And Aman is not?” Elenwë had countered.

They had laughed, for a moment, but then the word _Aman_ caught up with them. The silence that had fallen over them had been abrupt.

—and they are heading for the blue that they are almost sure is lake when a shout goes up. Írissë turns, and the sky just above the mountains seems to be tinted with purples and pinks and yellows, and even as she watches, the colours grow, and the yellow becomes a darker orange even as the deep blue sky lightens.

(This time, they do not even think it is a work of Melkor. They have seen the silver light. Maybe it is foolishness, but they trust in any light that rises from the West, now.)

Slowly, slowly, a light rises in the West, a light that is, for a moment, blinding, for it shines brighter and stronger than the silver light. _A ball of fire,_ Írissë thinks, and wonders, for a moment, whether it is a weapon of the Valar, come to punish them for Alqualondë (never mind that the Teleri were equally guilty).

But no—

The light rises in the sky, above them, and it is—

There are no words for it. It is the light of Laurelin come alive again, and Írissë does not know how it had been done, how such a thing has been made possible. She looks, and has to look away, for the light is blinding in its brightness, and—

“Aunt Írissë!” Itarillë says, her face lit up with joy. “Aunt Írissë, Mother, look! The sky is blue!”

And indeed it is, a pale, beautiful blue that Írissë last saw before the Darkening, before everything. _Blue_. _Blue_ , she thinks, and:

“Give the order to unfurl the banners!”

It is only after she has spoken that she realizes that she adding her voice to those of the Princes of the Ñoldor across the host. “Unfurl the banners! Bring out the trumpeters!”

And so, for the first time, the colours of the House of Ñolofinwë fly on Endórë, and the trumpeters herald the arrival of the Ñoldor.

And, Írissë realizes, flowers spring up beneath their feet, around them, everywhere as they walk, trees and shrubs bursting suddenly into bloom. It is a sudden riot of colour, colour that Írissë had forgotten existed _. If ever I must relive one moment in my life for all eternity,_ she thinks, _let it be this one._ For in this moment, the whole world is beautiful, awash as it is in the newly-wrought golden light.

“Írissë!” It is Elenwë who is calling her, now, and when Írissë turns to her, she has to amend her earlier thought: _this_ is the moment she would relieve for ever if she could.

For Elenwë is utterly radiant in the new-born light of Laurelin, her eyes as blue as the sky and her golden hair somehow more golden because of the light. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes alight and _alive_ , and she is beautiful beyond comparison.

“Írissë,” Elenwë says again, smiling a smile as bright as the light rising above them, “Írissë, I found something for you.”

She stretched out her hand, and Írissë's breath catches. A single, perfect, milky-white star-flower is laid on her palm.

Írissë reaches out with trembling fingers and picks the delicate flower out of Elenwë's palm as gently as she can. Her hands are still shaking as she places it on her breast.

“Thank you,” she says to Elenwë, and she, too, smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is—

The thing is, these feelings are not new. She had wanted Elenwë before, in Valinórë, wanted her before Turukáno had married her or even started courting her, properly. She had been infatuated with Elenwë, once upon a time when they were barely more than children. They were companions since childhood, not very close but close enough.

Írissë had admired Elenwë, who was older than her and therefore to be worshipped. She does not remember when worship had turned to infatuation. The infatuation of a child, still, and soon enough Turvo had begun courting her and Írissë had transferred her affections to other, more viable targets, but—

She had wanted Elenwë once.

And now, again, she wants her.

 

* * *

 

 

Endórë seems to have sprung into full bloom with the coming of the golden light, the land bursting with colour. Flowers unfold themselves from wherever they had been hiding during the long darkness, trees reach out as if to catch the golden light with their leaves, new sapling sprout everywhere they look.

As they move further north and further east, though, the land begins to grow dry and withered, trees thinning out and then becoming gnarled trunks devoid of leaves or disappearing completely, the ground hard and dusty. Where earlier the forests had been teeming with animals, now there are no signs of life.

And no sign of the armies of Melkor, too. Their march to the fortress that all signs point to is built in the north is devoid of resistance. Not a single company of Orcs attempts to halt their progress; there is nothing around them for miles but arid, flat land.

The eerie silence only deepens as they march closer to the fortress of Melkor, which looms in the horizon, a jagged black scar on the landscape, surrounded by rubble and decay, nothing but a sign of destruction. Everything but the marching host is completely still.

The silence is almost frightening; this, Írissë knows, is why Ñolofinwë orders the trumpets sounding. That, and as a warning. A challenge.

And, too, they unfold their banners, and so they come to the very gate of the fastness of Melkor unchallenged.

There they stop, and the trumpets sound louder than ever, and Írissë hears, as if from a distance, the Ñoldor. For herself, she cannot yet believe that she is here, standing at Melkor's gates, already. It seems like something

Then she realizes that they have _stopped_ at the gates. For the sheer rock seems impenetrable, no visible way to enter or leave. There is no way in for a host, and Melkor is inside the fortress. They are outside.

She is moving to the front of the host almost immediately, with quick instructions to her deputies to hold their positions.

She runs, and does not care what anyone thinks of her, and sees that the others, too, have come to the same conclusion, for they join her, meeting almost near the middle of the host for an spontaneous conference for the princes who lead their own people among the greater host of Ñolofinwë. There is a part of Írissë (a small, guilty part, for she knows the cost) that is thrilled at her inclusion, at the fact that she is allowed into the meeting and her voice heard as it would not be in Valinórë.

A larger part of her, though, is annoyed by the order Ñolofinwë gives, to turn back. They have raised their standards at the very gates of Melkor's lair, but they are retreating instead of turning back—it is truly madness.

“I know,” Elenwë says, “But—I do understand, Írissë, we have people who cannot fight among us, and penetrating this fortress—”

“We will not get this chance again,” Írissë objects. “What we have seen of Endórë so far seems to show that Melkor's host here is not insignificant.” But, too, she knows the arguments her father has made for the retreat, and agrees with them. They do not know what lies inside the fortress, they are still not fully recovered from the Ice, they need to train more and learn to fight on a battlefield and not a mock-swordfight in Aman, and there are those who cannot fight among them. And yet—she cannot help but be annoyed

Elenwë is adept at reading Írissë, for she says: “I know you know the reasons, Írissë. We do not have time for this.”

True enough; right now, she _does_ need to co-ordinate with her people. But the deep _angerfearhateloathing_ towards Melkor that had been simmering beneath her skin bubbles to the surface, and she has to bite her lip, hard, to stop herself from snapping at Elenwë (who does not deserve it).

Elenwë's voice is gentler when she speaks again, though she raises her voice to be heard above the still-enormous cacophony of the Ñoldor. “I am angry too, Írissë,” which burns Írissë, for how can Elenwë be as angry as she is, but Írissë quashes the thought immediately, for it is possibly the least charitable thing she could think. “But right now, what we need to do is find a way to properly destroy Melkor, a way which will not destroy us in turn.”

Which is true. She reaches out and grips Elenwë's forearm almost instinctively, grounding herself by the feel of warm skin against her own palm. Calm. She will keep herself calm enough to do what must be done. She breathes. “Thank you, Elenwë.”

She turns to go, to find Laurefindil and Ektelion and somehow begin an orderly turnaround, when Elenwë's voice makes her stop.

“Írissë?”

Elenwë is looking at her with too much knowledge. “Melkor will be destroyed, Írissë, I promise. Maybe not today, and maybe it will not be us who bring him down, but he will be brought down somehow.”

 

* * *

 

As luck would have it, Írissë is not there when the Ñoldor meet the first Elves of Endórë.

She had been itching with restlessness, their southward march back to the lake they had passed too slow for her comfort, and knew she would not be of any use in the state she was. So she had gone out with a hunting-party for two days (they had slipped back into old words from Valinórë to describe the time the lights passing above them took to traverse the sky very quickly); while she had been gone, Elenwë had, apparently, met a hunting-party who had come upon their host unexpectedly.

“They knew we were in Middle-earth, but did not know who or what we were, not truly, so they took care to avoid our paths,” Elenwë says, “or so I think; it is difficult to say, for the way they speak is different from the way we do. It is almost as if they are speaking a new tongue, but there are remains of familiar sounds, and we can understand each other through some effort, even if most of the time we did draw pictures in the dirt to communicate properly.”

“Oh?” Elenwë is interested in language and words, and since she is interested in the different languages of the Ñoldor and the Elves of Middle-earth, Írissë is interested, too, but, only because she is interested in what _Elenwë_ is interested in.

“I think we _can_ learn their language easily, and they ours. I can recognize many of the roots of the words they speak, even if the meanings and the sounds have diverged from the meanings and sounds of Quenya.” Elenwë's eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, and she is animated, wholly absorbed in what she is speaking of. “And it is not just their language—just from the moments we met it is obvious that their way of living is very different from ours, and it would be fascinating to learn how they live, and useful too, for we cannot sustain ourselves here the way we did in Aman.”

This is something Írissë does understand. “That would be very useful, if we could meet them again. And they would be more familiar with the terrain and what is edible and what is not, for the short term, if you can meet them again.” Which Írissë is not sure will happen, since, according to Elenwë, this was a chance meeting and not an embassy sent out specifically to find the Ñoldor.

“We will be able to.” Elenwë's lips are set in a determined line. “Now that we have spoken to some of them, it will be easier. And I do not think they will be unwilling to help us.”

“Do you know how, though? How to seek them out? Or do you think that they will come to us?”

Elenwë is silent for a long moment, contemplating her answer, Írissë knows. “I—I do not know, Írissë, but I think, now, it is up to us to make the next move.”

Írissë neither agrees nor disagrees; diplomacy has never been her strongest suit, and Elenwë can handle this better than her. “I think that is a task for _you_ , Elenwë.” Then, she adds hastily, “If you have time.” For both of them are busy, busy beyond anything they could have imagined in Aman, and almost overwhelmed by tasks that are necessary for their survival and the survival of the Ñoldor.

Elenwë smiles at Írissë, quick and bright. “I think I can. And,” her voice grows teasing, “unlike you, I know how to _delegate_.”

Írissë laughs and pushes at Elenwë. “You are a terrible person and I dislike you immensely, Elenwë.”

“That,” Elenwë pronounces, “is a lie.”

Írissë cannot say that she disagrees. After all, if she disliked Elenwë, she would not want, in this moment, to lean over and kiss her.

Instead, she makes a face at Elenwë. “You see into the depths of my heart, dearest one, see the strength of my devotion to you.”

This time, it is Elenwë's turn to glare. “You are _terrible_ , Írissë.”

Írissë grins. “I try.”

 

* * *

 

 

They decide to stop at the lake they had passed some time ago, the lake, they realize the Fëanárions are camped on the other side of. (Findaráto and Findekáno deal with Fëanáro's followers and his sons, for they are of the calmest temperaments of the Princes among them. Írissë tries not to think about this, for her part, tries not to think about them. It is easier that way.)

The two of them are overwhelmed by the work it takes to set up and maintain a permanent camp, work that that Írissë did not know existed until she became involved in it. Somehow, though, one evening, they both find enough free time to climb a grassy knoll near the lake and sit at the top, looking down at the camp spread below them.

(Or, they find time because there are things they desire to discuss away from the bustle and lack of privacy of the camp.)

“So many people,” Elenwë says quietly. “So many people, and so many of those people rely on us to keep them clothed and fed and alive.”

Írissë makes a noise of assent. She knows that Elenwë, who had not been born into royalty, is sometimes still amazed by the magnitude of their duties. (And, truly, sometimes, so is Írissë. For, in Aman, she had not been born to rule, and so she did not know the extent of the work which is required to rule.) And, what Elenwë says brings up a problem that has been pressing at her for some time. “I know your negotiations with the Elves of this land are going well, but we cannot live off the area around this lake forever.”

“We cannot hunt and gather forever,” Elenwë agrees. “The method works well enough for them, but our people are larger, as far I can see from what they have said, and are gathered in a smaller space. We need land for crops—”

“—but this land will not sustain a continued growth of crops for long,” Írissë finishes. “I know, but...” She trails off. What _can_ they do? Searching for land further off which is arable will not work (Írissë had gone over this option with Ñolofinwë and the other Princes and their advisors numerous times, and they had come to the same conclusion repeatedly).

“What we need is for the Ñoldor to disperse. To break into smaller groups, and see which parts of Middle-earth we can live in, and which are not inhabited, and establish ourselves there.”

“I agree,” Írissë says, “but we need some time. Not yet. We need stability, to organize, and take counsel among ourselves, and we need to to regain our strength before we strike out.”

Elenwë hums in agreement. “But—after that. We will find a kingdom of our own?”

The statement is phrased as a question, and it sends a thrill running down Írissë's spine. “We will.”

Elenwë smiles at that, and Írissë will never tire of Elenwë's smiles. “And you will rule this kingdom of ours, and I will help you.”

Írissë lays her head carefully on Elenwë's shoulders, and feels Elenwë's arm rise to wrap around her. “We will rule this kingdom, together.” The words are bittersweet. They have lost so much, and yet—

 _And yet, we will rule this kingdom together,_ Írissë thinks. But the stab of grief and guilt is still there, skittering across the surface of her thoughts.

There is a pause.

Then, “I—do not take this the wrong way, Írissë, but—I feel as if I am betraying Turukáno's memory by talking of establishing _our_ kingdom. Not all the time, not most of the time, but enough.”

“Sometimes,” Írissë admits quietly, “I feel guilty calling my people my people. I know he would not have wanted me to feel this guilt, but—”

“But,” Elenwë agrees. “I loved—I love him, but not as I used to.”

“I forget, sometimes, that he existed.” Írissë does not look at Elenwë as she says this, unsure of what the other woman will think of her, but Elenwë makes a noise of agreement.

“I think,” Elenwë says, after some time. “I know he would have wanted us to be happy. I—” She stops for a moment, and Írissë can see her worrying her lip. “He told me, when we were first on the Ice, that if he died, somehow, he would want me to find happiness somehow, even if that was by taking another lover, by loving another. I think,” she laughs, “that was the first time I ever heard him speak against the Laws. So—he would have wanted us to do this, to build our kingdom.”

“He would have wanted us to be happy,” Írissë repeats. She does not need to say more; she knows Elenwë knows, and there is mutual understanding in the silence between them.

They watch the sunset, hand in hand, Írissë's head still on Elenwë's shoulders. _We will,_ Írissë thinks, _rule a kingdom that is peaceful and prosperous, somehow or the other. We owe that much to him, and to ourselves._

 

* * *

 

 

It is not Írissë who realizes Findekáno is missing, despite the conversation they had only a few days earlier—

“ _I know Maitimo is not lost,” Findekáno had said fiercely, gripping her arm tightly. There had been a desperation in his voice that Írissë had not been able to divine the meaning of, then. “He is alive, I know it.”_

“ _Finno—” But then Írissë had stopped. She had not known what to say. She had heard, from Elenwë, gruesome tales of what Melkor did to his prisoners. But she had also known that it was better to stay silent than say that it was probably better if Russandol was dead, and that that even the few who had escaped his clutches did not live long after they found their way to civilization. There was, still, a bitterness about the burning of the ships and the blame that all the Fëanárions bore for that that she could not let go of, but towards Russandol that bitterness had become ambivalence._

_Findekáno had not appeared to hear her. “He is strong. He will survive.”_

_Írissë had spoken some inane words of comfort to him, then, and embraced him. But, even in her arms, he had not wept._

—and the news reaches her only after many hours have passed.

Ñolofinwë comes to find her himself, to tell her, and she knows the moment she sees him that the news will bad. _Elenwë,_ she thinks immediately, but no. Not Elenwë; there is no way any news about Elenwë could have travelled to her father before it came to her.

“Írissë,” Ñolofinwë says, without any preliminaries. “Findekáno is missing.”

“I—” Írissë stops. A rush of relief at _notElenwë_ , then blankness. Her mind is in shock; she cannot comprehend what Ñolofinwë just said. Then, “ _Missing?_ ”

“He is gone from his tent, and is nowhere to be found. And—he left a note.” Ñolofinwë looks haggard, Írissë thinks dimly, and of course he is, if Findekáno does not come back he will be the third of his children to die.

“A note?”

“It says he is going to rescue Russandol.” There is a note of weariness in Ñolofinwë's voice, and Írissë, too, suddenly feels immensely weary.

_Of all the things, of all the people—_

And yet, she thinks, she should have known.

“I have sent search parties out,” Ñolofinwë says. “I—” Then he stops. “I need to go, Írissë, to co-ordinate the search.”

Írissë watches him walk away for a few steps before she realizes that he is _walking away_.

“Wait!” She grabs Ñolofinwë's arm, and he turns. What she had intended to say (a half-formed thought about her last conversation— _last conversation_ , she thinks almost hysterically—with Finno) dies on her lips as she sees his mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly holding onto his composure by only the thinnest thread. “I will sent my men out to join your own,” she says, instead. “We will _find_ him.”

Ñolofinwë nods once, slowly. He does not believe her, she knows, but then, she does not believe herself.

“Írissë.” He pries her hand away from his arm as gently as he can. “I _do_ need to go.”

“Take care of yourself, father.” The murmured plea is for Ñolofinwë's ears alone. She knows how her father gets when he is worried and afraid—in that, they are far too alike. “Finno would not want you to—” She stops, unable to go on. Would not want you to. Already, she is talking about him as if he is dead.

Ñolofinwë smiles, though, even if it is a thin, strained smile, so she still counts it a victory. “And the same applies to you too, daughter.” Then, “I will send for you the moment there is any news.” He kisses her cheek and hurries off.

Írissë presses her hand against her eyes for one long moment. Then she takes a deep breath and straightens herself. The patrols will not send themselves out; she has work to do.

A mere half an hour of organizing search parties, and Írissë is exhausted almost to the point of tears. She should not be, but she is. Which is silly, and she would stay, but Laurefindil takes her by the elbow and steers her away from the people bustling around.

“Your highness, you need a moment to yourself.”

“I do not.” This comes out more snappish than Írissë intended it to, and probably adds to Laurefindil's argument, but she does not _care_.

“Your highness—” Then Laurefindil breaks off. “Írissë. I am speaking to you as a friend, as your friend and Findekáno's. Please. Swim in the lake, go some distance from the camp and scream, spar with someone, sleep. Do whatever you need to, and come back afterwards. Continuing on until you collapse will not help Findekáno.”

Írissë feels anger rise in her at the words—not sharp, still spoken in a gentle tone of voice, but undoubtedly critical—but tamps it down. At that moment, Laurefindil is thinking clearer than her—

“Please, Írissë.”

It is the please that makes her resistance crumble, and the fact that the person speaking is Laurefindil, who would never undermine her command, and is not trying to now. “I will be in my room. If you have need of me, summon me _immediately_.”

She winces at how her words come out harsher than she intends them to, and only waits for Laurefindil's 'yes, your highness' before she walks off.

She enters her and Elenwë's shared—structure (what they live in cannot be called a room properly, even though she calls it that in conversation, not yet, for it is still only half-built) to find Elenwë already there. She seems to be absorbed in a sheaf of papers, and starts at Írissë's footsteps.

“Írissë.” Elenwë sets the papers aside and rises.

“Elenwë—” Suddenly, Írissë cannot speak. She does not want to say the words aloud. Which is silly, for she has spoken them innumerable times in the last half-hour, but it seems as if saying that Finno is missing will make it reality.

But Elenwë, mercifully, says, “I know.”

“Oh.” Írissë does not know what to say to this. She steps closer to Elenwë, until there is barely half a foot of space between them; she cannot make herself deny the comfort that being close to Elenwë will bring, not now. “I—I do not know. I think—he is not going to come back, but I do not _know_.” She blinks aware the hot tears pricking at her eyes. “And I do not know whether I _think_ or hope. Do you—” But she cannot bring herself to finish the question.

“He will come back,” Elenwë says quietly, pressing her palm against Írissë's in a gesture meant to offer comfort. “He will realize, soon, that Russandol is gone, and he will come back.”

It is not that Írissë doubts Elenwë's words, for she is speaking from experience (Elenwë had, herself, tried to wander off alone in search of Turukáno's body in those first, desperate hours after his loss on the Ice, and Írissë had physically held her back from plunging into the ice to look for him), but the circumstances are different enough, and there is still enough hope left, that Findekáno could go to the very gates of Melkor's lair before he comes to the painful realization that his friend, his cousin, is gone, and by then—

But Írissë stops herself from wandering down that line of thought. “I hope so.”

Elenwë gathers Írissë into her arms, and holds her. “Thank you,” Írissë whispers into Elenwë's shoulder. It is not enough, it cannot be, and yet, somehow, Elenwë's tight embrace brings her more comfort than it should.

“An eagle! An eagle!”

Írissë can hear the shouting throughout the camp, and, indeed, when she looks up, an eagle is descending rapidly to the camp, an unidentifiable mass of—something on its back.

It is aiming to land on a space clear of tents near the lake, Írissë can see, and she moves forward through the crowd (people parting to make way for her). A moment later, Laurefindil is at her side.  
“Your highness, I ordered a ring of archers set at the best vantage-points. What are your orders?”

“Do not shoot.” Írissë hopes that her father and cousins have given the same orders; their people will co-ordinate with each other, but the soldiers who are not hers will not take her order above their commander's. “Wait for my order, or for my father's. Do _not_ shoot until then.”

“Very well, your highness.” Laurefindil inclines his head and hurries away.

Írissë pushes through to the edges of the crowd, where it has thinned, just as Ñolofinwë hurries up to them. And just as the eagle lands.

The eagle—

The eagle is huge. Larger than the eagles they have seen flying overhead, larger even than the eagles of Aman, with a massive wingspan and a broad back. And, on that back, is a person, supporting a bundle of torn-up rags—

“Findekáno!” She does not know who has spoken, Ñolofinwë or her, but it does not matter; they both move forward as one, to Findekáno, who has _returned_ , and he looks ragged and, Írissë realizes, there are bloodstains smeared across his clothes and his body, and is it a _harp_ strung on his back? But it is Findekáno, weary though he may look, alive and in their camp, and that is—enough.

But Findekáno does not jump down to greet them; he is, Írissë realizes, supporting a _person_ , not rags, a person who has wasted away to nothingness and looks as if he—

Írissë does not allow herself to think beyond that, lest the bile rising in her throat disgorges itself. And—and, she realizes, with dawning horror, Findekáno left in search of Russandol, and that means—

Elenwë told her (before Findekáno went missing, not after) second-hand stories of Melkor's cruelty and his skill in torture, stories told to her by people who had seen the aftereffects of that. Írissë had known, therefore, in some corner of her mind, the awfulness that Melkor is capable of, but _this_ —

Elenwë is at her elbow suddenly. “That is Russandol?” Her voice is questioning, an edge of horror beneath it.

Findekáno nods once, jerkily, and Írissë sees the exhaustion behind the movement, how he will not be able to hold both himself and Russandol up for long. Írissë thinks she should help him, but she is rooted to the spot, unable to move.

Elenwë, too, seems to be unable to move, to make a decision, but Írissë ignores that for now, ignores everything, because she needs to _think_. And yet she cannot, somehow. She should be better than this, by now, she should not be shocked by this, not after what she has seen.

And yet.

This is _torture_ , and, Írissë sees from Elenwë's face, Elenwë had not expected torture either. And, she thinks, the fact is—

Findekáno makes a single, aborted move, and something in Elenwë's face changes.

She takes a deep breath (Írissë can see her chest rise and fall) nods once, decisively. “You,” she points at someone in the crowd, “fetch the healers, immediately. Findekáno, do not move him until the healers come if you can. If you need support to help hold him up, tell me and we will get someone to climb in front of you and prop him up from the front. You,” she points at another person, “go to Osellë, tell her that we have someone who has been in Melkor's clutches for sometime and ask her to attempt to obtain the services of the healers of the Grey-elves; tell her she can use my name.”

She is confident as she gives out orders, in a way that neither Írissë nor Ñolofinwë can be in this moment, both as shocked and horrified as they are, and Írissë thinks, as if from far away: _thank goodness for Elenwë._

Írissë sits with Findekáno that day, and through the night and into the dawn of the next day, as the healers work. Somehow she manages to bully him into a perfunctory bath in the lake and a change of clothes, and gets one of their healers to see to the wounds and scrapes he has accumulated.

Sleep, however, he refuses. He insists on staying awake, and so Írissë stays with him, watching him alternately slump against the back of the chair (two chairs having being fetched for them by—someone, once it became clear that neither of them had any intention of stirring from their places) and murmur nonsense at hat. Once, he says: “His hand, Írissë, his _hand_ , I could not—” and breaks into sobs. Another time, the topic is Losgar; “I knew he did not do it on the beach,” he says loudly, as if repeating a fact to himself.

Findekáno, Írissë realizes, is half-delirious with a lack of sleep. He must not have slept the entire journey to and fro. _Dedication to Russandol,_ she thinks, and frowns.

She had been trying not to think of Russandol as she sat with Finno, and had been only partly successful. She does not quite know what to think of him, for there is still so much pain and rage attached to the names of Fëanáro and his ilk, but the pathetic figure Russandol cut as he was carried off the eagle could not be the receptacle of any pain or rage. And there, too, is the fact that she thinks, for the first time, that the rumours that had recently being flying around the camp about Russandol not participating in the burning of the ships at Losgar might have a shred of truth to them.

The sun rises on the horizon, and still they sit and wait. Findekáno's grip on her hand is iron-tight. Ñolofinwë had joined them in the dark of the night, but at sunset he is fetched for a matter that, judging by the deepening of the crease in between his eyebrows, is urgent.

They wait, and wait, and wait—

And then Elenwë, who had been translating for the Grey-elven healers, emerges. She looks even more exhausted than Írissë feels, stumbling on her feet and deep bruises underneath her eyebrow.

She speaks, first, to Findekáno. “I was told to tell you that Russandol is as stable as he will be for the next few days. We still do not—know, apparently,” _know whether he will live or die, whether he will survive this unmarred_ “but he is not in the danger he was in when you brought him. And—you can see him, if you want to, for a few minutes.”

As soon as the last sentence is uttered, Findekáno is up and through the door of the healer's wards.

Elenwë, meanwhile, collapses on the chair next to Írissë. “He is—” Then she breaks off, closing her eyes. “I hope he will be alright.” She curls onto the chair and pushes her head into Írissë's lap.

The sentiment is—strange, coming from Elenwë, but. “I—Thank you.” The phrase is not only for what she had said, but for everything she has done that day. For Findekáno, and, as uncomfortable as the thought makes her (though much less uncomfortable than before, and different kind of discomfort, that one of the Ñoldor could be captured by Melkor and tortured), for Russandol, too.

“I did nothing,” Elenwë says, her voice thick with exhaustion and muffled by the cloth of Írissë's tunic.

Írissë wants to protest, but does not. “Of course, Elenwë. But still—thank you on Findekáno's behalf, and Russandol's.”

Elenwë is silent for a long while. Then, “I—if you are thanking me for helping Russandol in particular,” (here she yawns) “then you do not need to. I will not—I cannot—what he did—”

“I know,” Írissë says, because she does, and because she has as much trouble as Elenwë does finding words to explain the—not forgiveness, truly, but horror that eclipses any need for forgiveness.

Elenwë hums, then yawns again. When she removes her hand from her mouth, she is smiling ruefully. “Wake me up in a bit, please. I need to go back and translate, but I cannot do that without sleeping a bit first.”

She needs to send a message to her father, Írissë knows, and to the Fëanárion camp, too. And then there will be permanent accommodations to sort out, and Elenwë or her deputies cannot be on hand every minute, they need to find a way to bridge the gap between their languages so the healers who know how to heal Melkor's tortures best can work with Russandol. But she does not get up, yet. She sits, with Elenwë still asleep on her lap, and breathes.

 

* * *

 

There is music by the lake, and laughter. When Írissë wanders over to look for the source, she finds that an impromptu dance-floor has been created. The last rays of the Sun are disappearing behind the mountains, and the dark is being lit up by lanterns. True lanterns that glow a soft orange, not the blue lamps of Fëanáro with their beautiful but bright, blazing light. A group of people are playing instruments to produce a lively tune, and a swirling crowd has gathered around them, people dancing, alone and in groups and in each other's arms. A less formalized dance style than in Valinórë, and less orderly, but Írissë sees the pure joy on the dancers' faces and hears their laughter, and thinks the dancing is just as beautiful as it was.

“I had almost forgotten what peace felt like.”

Írissë startles at the voice next to her, raised loud enough to be heard over the music, and turns. “Father!”

Ñolofinwë smiles at her, a smile that is unusually open and carefree. “Írissë. Why are you not dancing?”

Írissë tugs at her braid. “I—I do not think—” She cannot find a reply, and so turns the question around: “Why are _you_ not dancing?”

She regrets the words as soon as she speaks them (of all of them, Ñolofinwë has, perhaps, lost the most), but Ñolofinwë only laughs. “I am not suited for dancing, Írissë; there is a reason I never danced in front of you children. The first time I met your mother, I danced with her, and tripped over her no less than three time. And I had been getting lessons since childhood, too. I will not embarrass myself that way for anyone but Anairë.” His shoulders have stiffened, a little, but his face is still open, and Írissë counts that as a success.

Írissë laughs too. “I can imagine.” Her father is graceful with a sword and in posture, but it is a careful grace come of long years of study. She can imagine why that ease of movement would not transfer to the dance-floor.

“But you have not—” Ñolofinwë stops speaking mid-sentence, looking at something over Írissë's shoulder. “Ah. The answer to my question approaches.”

Írissë turns, reflexively, and sees Elenwë approaching her. The glow of the lanterns softens her features, and her eyes stand out, sharp and blue, against her face. Her hair has come half-undone from the careless knot at the back of her head, and the curls tumble down, framing her face. Írissë's breath catches.

Then she registers the meaning of Ñolofinwë's words. “Father!”

Ñolofinwë, when she looks back, has raised one utterly unapologetic eyebrow. “It is true.”

Írissë can feel herself blushing, even as she returns the smile Elenwë flashes her. “I—” She cuts herself off as Elenwë comes to stand in front of her, and stretches out a hand.

“I apologize for interrupting, your highness,” (this to Ñolofinwë) “but Írissë, could I have a dance with you?”

Írissë feels her cheeks heat even more (she did not know this was possible; she must be the most _terrible_ shade of red) and the blush creep down the back of her neck. She glances at her father; he nods, once, jerking his head towards the dancing crowds. And so Írissë wordlessly takes Elenwë's hand.

Elenwë leads her out onto the dance-floor, and her palm is warm against Írissë's, her fingers pressed into Írissë's skin _just so_. Then, still silently, they turn to face each other.

The music is slower, now, but still fast. They should be matching their pace to the music, Írissë knows, but she cannot bring herself to care; instead, she sways in Elenwë's arms, one hand on Elenwë's waist and the other pressed against her hand, palm-on-palm.

There are a few inches between them, but Írissë is aware of every single movement of Elenwë's body. She can feel heat emanating from the place where their palms are touching and spreading along the rest of her body. Once or twice, their breasts or feet brush, and every touch sends a thrill through Írissë. Elenwë is warm even through layers of cloth where Írissë's hand is on her waist, and she can feel the slow circles Elenwë's fingers are tracing on her own hip.

 

* * *

 

 

Írissë slowly moves closer to Elenwë, a distance closer than is proper, and does not realize until their bodies are brushing against each other, feather-light touches that last only for a moment before disappearing, that Elenwë, too, has being moving forward.

They still have not spoken, but they do not need to. Írissë revels in the tension crackling in the air between them, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Inventories, Írissë decides, were quite possibly created by people for the sole purpose of torturing the poor souls who _must_ look through them.

The whole situation they are in is a logistical nightmare; while the lake of Misteringwë is large enough that the hosts of Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro are separated by water and the two camps do not meet at any point, their people still manage to squabble, fights flaring up at the slightest annoyances. Findekáno's rescue of Russandol has reduced the tension between the two camps somewhat, but altercations still occur frequently.

And there is another problem besides the squabbling Ñoldor: the area is not large enough to support the entirety of the Ñoldor indefinitely.

Already, they are having difficulty with food. They must be careful while hunting, making sure that they do not decimate the populations of the game, and this proves more and more difficult as time passes.

They _will_ run out of food, soon. And that is if they do not kill each other first.

Írissë sighs, and lays her head on her desk.

“Írissë.”

Írissë looks up to see Elenwë hovering over her. “Is something the matter, Elenwë?”

“No,” Elenwë says, “But I have something to show you.” She's looking at Írissë with something undefinable in her eyes, and Írissë feels a thrill run up her spine.

“I—” She casts a glance at the papers. She does have work to do, but— “I can do this work later.”

She is immediately rewarded by Elenwë's smile. “I did not think you would be that easy to persuade.”

“This work, as necessary as it may be, is horribly depressing,” Írissë confesses. “I am glad of the chance to avoid it for a while.” She makes to rise, but Elenwë grabs her wrist.

“Wait.”

Elenwë brushes a strand of hair away from Írissë's forehead (Írissë is suddenly hyperaware of Elenwë's presence and of her touch) and tucks it behind her ear. “There. _Now_ you are ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

The place Elenwë takes her to is breathtaking. There is no other word for it.

It is a small dell some way out from the edges of the camp. One of the many streams that feed Misteringwë bubbles through it, the water clear and flowing rapidly to the lake. Its banks are populated by stones covered with green moss and tiny white flowers.

The ground of the dell, too, is covered with the same flowers; the effect is that of white stars against a deep green sky, and a strange violet flower that is scattered much more sparsely adds colour to the vision. The blue of the true sky peeks out from between the shade of the tree-branches that ring the edge of the dell.

“It is _beautiful_ ,” Írissë says, finally. “This is beautiful.”

Elenwë takes Írissë's hand in hers, tight and warm. “I am glad you like it.”

“I—thank you.” There is a lump in her throat, and Írissë cannot speak. This, she thinks, is the Endórë she crossed the Ice for, the small things that are all the more beautiful for their smallness. “ _Thank you_.”

And there, too, is the fact that Elenwë is standing beside her. They are still hand in hand, and Írissë feels the urge to kiss her rise as strongly as it ever does.

She does not, in this moment, second-guess herself. She turns to Elenwë, and kisses her.

Elenwë is, for a moment, unresponsive, and Írissë begins to pull back (what if—), but then Elenwë's hands rise to Írissë's waist, and she begins to return the kiss.

It is nothing like Írissë has felt before. She has kissed people before this, but none of those kisses were like this. Perhaps it is the fact that she knows Elenwë so well, perhaps it is the love she holds for her, but the warmth that spreads from where their lips meet across the rest of Írissë's body is nothing like she has every felt before. Elenwë's lips are not soft (they are, in fact, drier than Írissë would imagine was painless in some places), and Elenwë's kiss is not the most gentle Írissë has ever had, but is it indefinably _better_.

Her own hand has risen, almost unconsciously, to clutch at Elenwë's tunic, and she can feel the soft cloth bunched underneath her fingers, the heat of Elenwë's palm against her body, the pleasurable pressure where Elenwë's breasts are pressed against her own.

When they finally break apart, Elenwë's lips are red and slightly swollen, and her eyes are shining, and she is _beautiful_. Írissë feels as if she is floating through the firmament, flying through the hearts of stars with Elenwë by her side.

And then Elenwë says, her voice perfectly composed, “So it appears that both of us are attracted to each other.”

And that should not be as funny as it seems (except how both of them _knew_ and knew the other knew, even if neither had acted until this moment), but for some reason, Írissë begins to laugh, and once she starts, she cannot stop, joy bubbling in her stomach. Elenwë joins her laughter, and they tumble onto the grass, arms around each other. Írissë thinks, between bouts of giggles, that in this moment they are both as happy as two people can be.

 

* * *

 

 

**Epilogue**

In the aftermath of Ñolofinwë's crowning, there are many, many decisions to be made. The decisions are, in truth, those they should have made the moment they knew that Melkor would not be easily defeated, the moment they knew that their stay in Midde-earth was going to be long, but put off, for some reason or another.

The Princes of the Ñoldor will spread out across the land, dividing the lands among them. This, Írissë knows, is a good decision, for their people cannot be contained in the camp much longer, and Moringotto, as they have begun to call him, cannot be fought unless the Ñoldor and their allies have control over Beleriand.

And yet—

“It is foolish,” Írissë says, “but I do not want to leave.” She surveys the pack they have made to take with them—already, they have more possessions than they brought over the Helcaraxë into Middle-earth, and though the pack contains only the bare necessities, it is still larger than the pack Írissë brought stepping onto Endórë—and groans.

Elenwë laughs. “We are not leaving forever, love. We _will_ be back, after we take in the lay of the land of Nevrast and talk to the people of Mount Taras.” She does not fumble over the unfamiliar words in the language of the Sindar as Írissë would have, for already, she is adept in the dialect of that language which the Mistarimbë speak.

“And if we decide that Nevrast is where our kingdom will be?” Írissë is still frowning, but, at the same time, she feels a thrill run through her body at the words _our kingdom_. Their kingdom, hers and Elenwë's. A kingdom for their people, and— “And something may happen in our absence that requires either you or me.”

Elenwë steps closer to Írissë, pushes her hair out of her face (and Írissë's nerves still tingle when Elenwë touches her; she does not know whether the reaction will diminish with time, but for now, her body still sings with joy at the feel of Elenwë's hands on her skin). “Laurefindil is a competent deputy, and if anything that necessitates our presence occurs, there is an entire campful of Princes who can stand in our stead.”

Írissë sighs. “I know, but—”

“But you worry,” Elenwë finishes. “I know.” She drops a light kiss on Írissë's lips. “Everything will be _fine_ , Írissë. But we do need to go now; Neniel,” their guide from among the Mistarimbë who will show them the way to Nevrast, “is waiting.”

“You are saying,” Írissë smiles, “that I am delaying us.”

Elenwë shakes her head mock-impatiently. “Yes, love, I am.”

“Then, by all means, let us go.” But Írissë cannot help but kiss Elenwë again before they can move.

Elenwë returns her kiss with enthusiasm. Then, “We _do_ need to go now, Írissë. We need to go and find the place where we will build our kingdom.”

 

* * *

 

 

_All [the Grey-elves who lived in Nevrast near to the coasts, and especially about Mount Taras in the south-west] took Aredhel for their lord, and the mingling of the Ñoldor and the Sindar came to pass soonest there. And Aredhel dwelt long in those halls that she named Vinyamar, under Mount Taras beside the sea, the only Princess of the Ñoldor to rule a realm in the early years of the First Age. Lady Elenn, once wife of Turgon son of Fingolfin, dwelt with Aredhel, and she was said to be favoured by Ulmo and Ossë. And it is through Lady Elenn that the events of the latter half of the First Age came to pass, and Morgoth was at last defeated._

—Quenta Silmarillion of Pengolodh


End file.
